


Willing Tribute

by LittleUggie



Series: NaNoWriMo Shorts [5]
Category: Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Creature!Hannibal, Demon!Hannibal, Fairy Tale Elements, M/M, Magic, Sacrifices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-11 23:54:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12946788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleUggie/pseuds/LittleUggie
Summary: A demon protects the village in return for a tribute every ten years.





	Willing Tribute

**Author's Note:**

> Started this during NaNoWriMo. Just now finished it up.

The demon had been bound to the village longer than anyone could remember. There were stories, passed down from clerics and other leaders of the clan. They said that once there was nothing to protect the village from threats. Outside invaders, hungry predators, magical beasts, power crazed sorcerers. So the wise elders of the clan made the decision to summon a demon to protect them. 

Nowadays, very few people ever actually saw the demon. Oh, everyone knew he was there. No one besides the clerics ever wanted to get close to the temple which emitted a aura of menace. And sometimes the mutilated bodies of hostile intruders showed up in the middle of the village. But that is the price they paid for protection. 

Well, not quite. The true price, the ones the ancestors had agreed upon when they bound the demon was to provide him with tribute. And by tribute, he meant sacrifice. Every ten years, on the anniversary of the binding, the village must provide the demon with one of their own, of his choice. 

No one ever saw what happened to those who were chosen. Perhaps it was better that way. 

Also, no one was ever sure what provoked his choice. There did not seem to be any connection between the tributes. He never took anyone younger than 16, but other than that there seemed no rhyme or reason. But if one person a decade was enough to keep the majority of the village safe, then that is what they would do. Besides, no one wanted to find out what would happen if the demon was ever released. 

It was a belief held by some that the demon would pass you and your family over if you left gifts for him at his temple. There was no evidence to suggest this was true. One man who was taken had left gifts of food once a week, but the tradition persisted. 

Will Graham was eight the year of his first Tribute day. Young enough to not have to worry about being taken (though it was a threat some parents would use, be good or the demon would take you as tribute). The occasion was an odd mix of celebration and solemnity. There was feasting and speeches by the elders and clerics. Lots and lots of gifts were left on the steps of the temple. 

Will slips away from his father, who is helping prepare the meat for the feast and goes up to examine some of the gifts left. He never minded the temple very much. The other children said it felt creepy, but he found it almost calming. On the few occasions they came into the main part of the villiage, he would go sit behind the temple, where it converges into the forest. With his back pressed against the stone and head covered by the canopy of trees, he felt safe. 

The gifts varied quite a bit. Over the years, the villagers had picked up somewhat on things the demon liked. These were the gifts that vanished the fastest from the temple steps. Books, paper, drawing charcoal, musical instruments, artwork, wines, fresh foods, fine cloths, magical trinkets: all were among what was represented today. 

Will is looking at one of the books. It has a leather cover with a tooled picture of a stag on it. Looking around to make sure no one is looking, he carefully lifts the cover. It turns out to be a blank journal. That is somewhat disappointing. 

“Something interesting?” An amused voice says behind him. Will jumps up and spins around guiltily. 

He doesn’t recognize the man speaking. His accent sounds a little odd. But it is a very large village, and Will and his father live on the edge of it near the river and don’t see many other people a lot anyway. 

“Uh-no.” Will says, edging away from the pile. 

The man chuckles and picks up the journal Will was looking at. He smiles with some secret amusement at the cover, then offers it to Will. 

“A young man like you could use a journal to record your thoughts in.” 

Will’s eyes grow wide. “But that’s the demon’s! I couldn’t take it.” 

“I think the demon can spare one blank book.” 

“But-” Will’s brow creases. He does not know how to articulate the inherent wrongness of taking something meant for the demon. 

The man studies him for a minute. “How about this.” He says. “Why don’t you write to the demon? That way you are giving him a gift of your own to make up for taking this one.” 

Will hesitates. This sounds interesting. Writing to the demon. He doesn’t think anyone has done that before. 

“But if I have the book, how will he read what I write to him?” 

“Ah,” the man says seriously. “The demon has ways. He will know when you are addressing him.” 

Will nods. This makes sense. He is a powerful demon, after fall. He looks longingly at the book the man holds out to him. The stag on the front appearing as the light hits it just right to show the subtle tooling. 

“Are you sure it’s alright?” He asks the man, looking up at him. He has high cheekbones, and a funny little smile as if he knows something no one else does. Crinkles appear around his eyes. 

“I am sure.” He tells the boy. 

Will cautiously takes the book, and holds it tight to his chest. “Thank you!” he tells the man, and then darts off, suddenly overcome by shyness. 

He navigates through the crowds of people and gets back to his father before he notices he was missing, still hugging his treasure to his chest, never noticing the pair of red eyes following him. 

The choosing of the tribute is, like so many things to do with the demon, shrouded in mystery. The person just seems to suddenly know at the appointed time. Persons who gave no indication previously that they knew anything would walk into the temple and never come back out. Some go quietly, with blank faces. Others go weeping or screaming with jerky movements, as if they are trying to stop their on limbs from propelling them forward. 

This year, Will is holding tight to his father’s hand, the other holding his book. He watches with the rest of the silent crowd gathered in a large circle around the steps of the temple. As the sun just dips below the horizon, a man in the middle of the crowd surges forward. A hunter, Will recognizes from the market. He walks with a sort of shuffling limp, and his face seems to be contorted in pain. The crowd is completely silent, except for the gentle sound of breath and the rustle of clothing. The doors to the temple open of their own accord when he reaches the steps. Will cranes his neck to see, but there is only an encompassing darkness inside the temple. The hunter is swallowed up by it. 

The temple doors close behind him. They should bang, Will thinks. But they don’t, they close with no sound at all. There is another moment of stillness in the crowd, then they are dispersing, to continue feasting and visiting with their friends and relations. To breath easy for another ten years. 

Will eats a piece of smoked fish and a warm piece of bread, and strokes the soft leather of his new journal, thinking about what he is going to write the demon. 

 

10 years later.

 

Will wakes on Tribute Day at the same time he wakes every day: too damn early. He sits up and yawns, dislodging one or two dogs that had taken advantage of his body heat during the night. They really shouldn’t be on the cot with him, but he couldn’t bring himself to scold them. They were the most company he usually got since his father died of an illness two years prior. He stretches and busies himself getting dressed. Slightly better clothes than his usual day to day wear, because it was Tribute Day after all. Even weird reclusive fishermen living on the edge of the village showed up for Tribute Day. Especially since…

He pulls the leather journal out of the oilskin cloth he kept it wrapped in to protect it. Despite his best efforts, it still looked a little ragged after ten years of frequent use. He opens it to the first page, written exactly ten years prior after he and his father had returned home. He had gotten a stub of charcoal and written in his oh so careful (but still shaky) child script 

_ To the village demon:  _ (he’d wanted to be specific) _. Hello. My name is Will Graham. This book was meant for you, but someone told me that I could write in it as a gift instead. I hope you will like it.  _

_ You live in the temple in town. It must be nice with all the gifts you get. I live in a wood house near the river because my father and I are fishermen. I like fishing and dogs.  _

_ I will write to you again soon.  _

_ From Will Graham. _

He’d written something every day since that day. The book is magical to be able to accommodate the hundreds of pages he has written without running out of space. Also there is the fact that when he woke the next day, there was always a reply in a beautiful curling script.

He had been quite surprised to look at his new book the next day and see the words. 

_ Dear Will Graham,  _

_ Hello to you as well. My name is Hannibal. I will forgive you taking my book, if you continue to write to me. I do not talk to many people these days, and I would enjoy hearing from you.  _

_ Some of what your people have given to me over the years does remain in the temple, but I do not really consider it my home. It is more of a gate.  _

_ I am sure you are a wonderful fisherman, Will. I myself enjoy hunting. I do not have any strong feelings toward dogs, though they tend not to like me.  _

_ I look forward to hearing from you.  _

_ Your friend,  _

_ Hannibal.  _

Will traces the letters that make up the words,  _ Your Friend _ . He had never had a friend before Hannibal. He flips forward to a random page. This one was written when he was 12. 

_ Dear Hannibal,  _

_ I really liked your drawings. I could never have imagined buildings could look like that. They must be huge! I guess you know that your temple is the biggest and fanciest in the village. When did you visit the city in the drawing? It must have been a long time ago since you have been bound here as long as anyone in our clan can remember.  _

_ Your Friend,  _

_ Will _

 

_ Dear Will,  _

_ I am pleased you enjoyed my efforts. The palace certainly was quite vast. It was many, many years ago that I visited that land. Long before your village was established. I do not believe the country still exists. Such is the way of the world.  _

_ How are your canine companions faring? I hope they are taking good care of you.  _

_ Your Friend,  _

_ Hannibal _

He flips absentmindedly through other entries, occasionally stopping and smiling at the memories. He had filled pages and pages discussing everything with Hannibal. Had worn down countless charcoals, using quill and ink when he could get it. 

Hannibal seemed knowledgeable about everything. When Will was still a child he would teach him through his writings, patiently answering all his questions one by one. As he grew older, and began to form his own opinions and impressions, they had engaged in spirited debates and conversations. 

Will didn’t think his father ever suspected. He just thought his son was a little strange and had his head in the clouds. Little did he knew he actually had it in a book. 

His smile fades as he turns to the page he had written last night. 

_ Dear Hannibal,  _

_ After spending hours staring at a blank page, I am still unsure what to write. It is an odd feeling. Even on the dullest days, I could still think of something to say to you, some question to ask.  _

_ But now I find myself at a loss.  _

_ Tomorrow is Tribute Day. We have not mentioned it, but we both have known that the day was drawing near. It seems like my hand is constantly poised on the edge of asking the question, but I can never make myself.  _

_ So I will not. I will gather at the temple with everyone else this evening, and  _

There is a trail of ink where his hand had faltered. 

_ What happens will happen.  _

_ Yours,  _

_ Will _

There is no answering message. The first time there has not been a response. Will stares at the empty space for a long time, as if reading the blankness. Then he shuts the book and carefully wraps it back up. 

Over the years the bond that they had share through their writing had grown into something more for Will. He trusted Hannibal more than anyone else. The problem is that Hannibal was a demon. The demon, in fact. He never tried to hide the fact. When Will had questioned him what he meant about the temple being a gate, he got a technical explanation that he wasn’t able to understand for years. 

In all the stories Will had heard about the village demon, (and he had tracked down every one he could find) no one had ever mentioned his name. Maybe the name was lost to history. Maybe even the clerics who summoned him had intentionally hidden his name. Either way. Will knew it. He had given it to him, just as he gave him so many other things. 

And today, Will planned to give him something back. Will was going to be the Tribute. 

He gathers up the few things of sentimental value he owns and a pair of clothes. He pets the dogs, and shoos them out of the cottage. They are the only thing he truly regrets leaving behind, but they are half wild anyway and will be able to take care of themselves. 

Carefully closing the door, he sets off at a steady pace toward the village. He does not look back. 

The festivities are in full swing by the time he arrives. Little children running about playing games incomprehensible to adults. Men and women exchanging goods, cooking food. The tangle of humanity presses in on him. He feels distant from them, in a bubble of his own. He can hear the whispers, that undercurrent of worry that always marks this day. 

He makes his way to the temple, where the gifts were already piling up. The pack with his belongings in it is set in an empty space. Then he slips around the side of the building to the back, where he sinks down, facing the forest beyond. 

The sounds of the village are muffled back here, more so than Will thinks they should be. He leans back, the coolness of the stone seeping into his back. 

“Will you take me?” He whispers to the quiet wood.

He strains his ears and it might be his imagination, but he think in the wind he can just make out the near inaudible words. 

_ My Will. _

He stays there until the shadows grow long and he can hear the dimming of voices, as the villagers gather around the steps to the temple. Will stands and edges his way back around to the front. He finds a place near the front of the crowd. As the sun sinks, his eyes are fixed on the door of the temple. There is a nervous fluttering in his abdomen

The only noise he can hear is the pounding of his heart in his ears as the doors swing open. Before he can make his brain tell his legs to move, something moves in the inner darkness. There is a gasp that echoes around the clearing. 

From the shadows, the demon steps out. 

He is tall, skin and eyes jet black. He moves with a predatory grace. From his head, vicious spiked antlers curve. He has a wrap tied around his waist of a dark red material. There is a sharp intelligence in the lines of his face, and he surveys the awe struck crowd with a haughty expression. 

Then his eyes alight on Will, and what could be called a smile graces his face. He holds out a hand imperiously to the young man. Without making a conscious effort to move, Will finds himself standing just before the steps, towered over by the demon. 

_ Hannibal _ , his brain supplies. He takes the hand. It is warm, which surprises him for some reason. 

Hand in hand, Hannibal leads Will into the dark.

 

Then, suddenly, he is surrounded by light. He blinks, looking around. He is sitting on a soft, low bench in a wide open room filled with light. In front of him, taking up nearly a whole wall is a magnificent painting. There are other paintings lining the walls, but none as grand as this. 

Beside him, sits a man watching him with a mysterious little smile. Returning his gaze, Will realizes he has seen him before. He is the man who encouraged him to take the journal all those years ago. 

“Hannibal.” 

“Will. I am glad to be able to speak to you face to face again.” 

Will studies him. Now that he is looking for it, he can see the face shape matches the demon’s. 

“You came to take me.” 

“You are different. They needed to see.” 

“What happened to the others?” He had never been able to bring himself to ask in the journal. 

“I consumed them.” 

Will blinks. Well, he is a demon. There had been some speculation about that. 

“What made me different?” He asks. “You chose me when I was just a child.” 

“You were not afraid.” Hannibal says simply. “You sought out my temple for comfort. How could I not take you?” His eyes gleam with satisfied possession.

“Where are we?” Will asks, looking at the massive painting again. Hannibal’s look was doing odd things to his insides. 

“I told you once that the temple is a type of gateway. That is more or less true. It serves as access to a separate realm of my own design, created by my power. This is one of the galleries.” 

“It’s beautiful.” Will says. 

“Yes.” Hannibal says, but he is not looking at the painting. He stands, offering his arm to Will. “Come. There is much I wish to show you.” 

 

5 Years Later

 

The encroaching army of a neighboring country is fast approaching the village on their way to the capital. They had decimated every town so far in their wake. The villagers closed their doors and battened down the hatches. They studiously ignored the sounds of screams in the night. The next day, when all seemed quiet, they cautiously opened their doors. 

A guard is sent to check on the army’s position. He comes running back, face white. He takes the village leaders to the edge of the village border The sight that lay their caused even the strongest stomachs to turn. The carnage was horrendous. It looked like half of the army had been slaughtered, bodies posed, viscera glistening in the sun. Crows had already flocked to the site, so the scene was punctuated by drifting black feathers. 

And leading from the killing field are two sets of bloody footprints that trace all the way back to the steps of the demon’s temple. 


End file.
